


The Only Thing Suicidal Here Is The Door

by mahoni



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Canon Related, Drunk Sex, M/M, Smut, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-29
Updated: 2010-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-06 19:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/56820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahoni/pseuds/mahoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank does not hump Gerard's baby brother on stage.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Thing Suicidal Here Is The Door

Frank was contemplating getting drunk. He was pretty buzzed, but not very drunk yet, and it was two in the morning and they had a show the next afternoon, but everybody else was drunk. Except Ray, who was asleep. Frank was pretty sure he'd been drunk before he fell asleep, though.

These were all important things to consider. It was an important decision. Whether or not to drag his ass up and out of the bus and find more alcohol, because that last beer was...well, the last beer. So that he could maybe get really drunk. Or more drunk. Drunkier. Drunktastic.

_Except,_ he reminded himself, _That I'm out of beer._

"If somebody would bring me more beer," he told the window. "I would definitely get drunk."

As if the bus had actually heard him, the door hissed open and Mikey fell up the steps.

"Watch that last step," Frank said. Because his grandpa had always said it and Frank had always thought it was hilarious, he added, "It's a doozy." Then he thumped the couch with his fist and giggled.

"Nnrghglb," Mikey said from the floor.

Frank fought down the giggles and said, "Nope. Sorry, dude. I'm not wasted enough to translate Drunk. You gotta speak English."

Instead of answering, Mikey sighed and hauled himself upright. He staggered to the couch, weaving through the kitchenette and past the table cluttered with empties and magazines and somebody's bag of Game Boy cartridges. He didn't knock anything over. Mikeyway was the only person Frank knew who was less accident-prone drunk than he was sober. Mikey sober was a menace.

"You are a menace, Mikeyway," Frank said as Mikey flopped down onto the couch beside him. "A menace. Menacing. You menace microphone stands and small kitchen appliances with your menacing...menace."

Mikey squinted at him over his glasses that had slipped down his nose, but by the time he came up with a response Frank had remembered that he'd forgotten something.

"Where is my beer?" Frank said.

Mikey continued squinting at him. "Your beer?"

"My beer. I told the bus I needed beer and then it, like, sucked you in from outside." Frank had the sort of vague sense that that was complete bullshit. But if it got him beer, he was willing to roll with it. "So you must have beer."

Holding up his hands -- empty -- Mikey said, "I don't have beer." He stuck out his bottom lip a little, his expression a combination of sad, sympathetic, and apologetic.

Frank sighed. "Damn."

He let his head drop back and they sat there staring at the window. With the lights on inside the bus, mostly they just saw the reflections of the top of their heads and the other windows above them. But some of the lights on outside the bus were bright enough to seep through. It looked like a ghost world overlaying the world inside the bus.

Frank decided he didn't mind that Mikey had not brought beer. He was drunk enough. Like, he was drunk enough to think about how close Mikey was and how warm Mikey was. Also to let himself stare at Mikey's profile and his mouth and really, really appreciate the way Mikey looked with his head thrown back and his eyes heavy-lidded, and his body loose and his t-shirt riding up as he slouched deeper into the couch.

Normally Frank avoided those things, because.

Because.

Frank thought he remembered a conversation with Gerard. The one about Mikey not being a groupie or a roadie or another one of those people Frank could share bj's with and then never talk to again, and about Mikey being Gerard's little brother. He was pretty sure he'd said something about "but he's older than I am," because that had to count for something, right, but Gerard had narrowed his eyes and said, "Just, no, Frank. Because. My _baby brother_. You know?"

He was pretty sure they had had that conversation. On the other hand, Frank had always figured that's how the conversation would go if Frank had told him that he was lusting after Mikey. He might have just had that conversation in his head and then not bothered having it for real.

"Hey," Mikey said. "Hey Frank." He slid his foot sideways and bumped Frank's leg with his own. "Fraaaank."

But the point was that when Frank was just a _little_ drunk he could stare at Mikey and fantasize about sharing bj's with him, because then he could blame it on being drunk.

"Fraaaaankiiiiiiiieeeee," Mikey said. It came out a weird nasally whine, but the way it got breathy at the end when Mikey suddenly ran out of air made it sound a little like a moan.

_Nice_, Frank thought. He could feel himself leering. But that was okay because he was a little drunk.

"Are you dead?" Mikey said. "Did you die with your eyes open? Answer me, dickhead."

Frank dropped the leer and tried for something dead-eyed and spooky. "Speak, Mikey," he intoned. "Speak to the dead."

Mikey wrinkled his nose, unimpressed. "You humped Ray's leg on stage tonight."

Frank blinked at him. "Uh. I guess. Maybe?"

"No, you did," Mikey said. "You _did_." He sounded annoyed.

"So I did." Frank shrugged. "So? I hump Gee's leg all the time. And sometimes his head." He snickered.

"But tonight you did it to _Ray_," Mikey said.

Frank stared at Mikey hard, trying to read his mind. It didn't work. "So... So?"

Mikey stared back, looking like he was either thinking really hard about how to get his point across, or else he was trying to help Frank read his mind. Still didn't work. Finally he sighed and dropped his head back against the couch again. After a second he looked sideways at Frank and the corner of his mouth turned up just a little.

"You never hump my leg, Frank," Mikey said. "That's what so."

Frank hated to repeat himself, but all he could do was stare at Mikey again. Because what was that? That sideways look. Frank had seen that sideways look, but it was always something Mikey directed at groupies and roadies and other kinds of people Mikey tended to wander off and disappear into closets or green rooms or buses with.

"Do you want me to hump your leg, Mikey?" As a come-on it sucked, but Frank was not so much trying to seduce Mikey as he was surprised and honestly in need of clarification.

The almost-smile vanished, and the heavy-lidded gaze came back. "Maybe."

_Do not hump my baby brother's leg!_ the Gerard-voice in Frank's head said. Frank told it to fuck off.

"On stage?" Frank said.

Mikey shrugged. "Sure. Or here."

Frank gave that one a second. Just enough time for Mikey to crack up at the joke, or for purple monkeys to climb in through the windows and ask if they could watch (which was what happened the last time Frank had a dream about fucking Mikey. Or almost fucking him. A purple monkey audience was a hell of a mood killer).

"Really?" he said.

Mikey shrugged again. But his hand, limp in his lap, turned and flattened on the top of his leg. Slid down to the inside of his thigh. It was clear Mikey's hand had a destination in mind. He'd sprawled out with his legs kicked out, and he had on his usual tight jeans. And, okay, Mikey's shoulders may have shrugged, but other parts of him were answering with a very definite 'yes.'

Frank thought _YES_ and then thought _wait._

"Where's Gerard?" he said.

Mikey's hand stopped while he gave that some thought. If Frank had been less drunk he'd've probably felt a little guilty that this was the sort of thing that Mikey did not say, "oh don't worry about it, Gerard won't mind" about.

"With Bert," Mikey said. Then he grimaced. "Let's not talk about that, though."

Frank agreed. "Yeah, no." Not that he didn't like Bert. Or Gerard, obviously. But Bert-and-Gerard could be a little...mood-killing. Not unlike purple monkeys.

The bus swooped and looped when Frank sat up. When he made it to his knees he immediately lost his balance, toppling into Mikey.

"Woops," he said. He'd landed with his arms around Mikey's shoulders and his face against Mikey's neck. "Sorry."

Mikey grunted and flailed, as much as he could with Frank squashing him. He started giggling and started to say something, but all Frank heard was, "mumble mumble mumble snicker -- nngh --"

Because Mikey's neck was right there, warm and smooth under Frank's nose and mouth, so Frank licked it. Mikey let out a breath, a little humming sigh. When Frank licked again, slower, lighter, and followed the lick with a drag of his lips back the way he'd come, the way Mikey shifted made Frank bet Mikey's hand had reached its destination.

He slid his leg over one of Mikey's, pressing himself down and forward on Mikey's thigh. Mikey wanted leg-humping; Frank could do leg-humping. The stuff he did on stage happened more because he was on stage playing fucking awesome music for a huge audience, and there were awesome people there on stage with him. Stuff like that just went to his dick sometimes. But he wasn't really trying to get off when he was on stage.

That's why he'd never do it to Mikey on stage. With Mikey, he'd want to get off, never mind the audience, never mind that Gerard would probably stop singing to beat him over the head with a microphone stand.

Like now, here. He definitely wanted to get off, and Mikey was very humpable. The hard friction and the awkwardness weren't the hottest thing ever, but every time Frank licked Mikey's neck or bit his jaw or his collarbone, every time he skimmed his hand down Mikey's chest and flicked his fingernails lightly over Mikey's nipples, Mikey made sounds. Awesome sounds. The best sounds. And every time Frank thrust forward, pushing his cock against Mikey's thigh, his own leg ran into Mikey's hand. That hand was busy.

In fact.

Frank nuzzled Mikey's head to the side until he could reach the taut shoulder muscle. He latched on with his mouth, held on with his teeth just hard enough to make Mikey groan and go still. Feeling his way, Frank groped over Mikey's stomach and pushed Mikey's hand out of the way. Wrestling apart the button and zipper on Mikey's jeans wasn't actually too hard. Tight pants were pretty common in Frank's experience.

Mikey lifted his hips, maybe trying to give Frank room to shove his pants down a little, maybe trying to thrust against Frank's hand, Frank wasn't sure. Frank finally got enough fabric out of the way to get a handful, though.

Mikey went still beneath him again. Frank had accidentally pinned Mikey's free hand to the couch when he'd climbed aboard; Mikey twisted and pulled it free. He floundered with it, breathing hard and jerking with every slow, firm pull on his cock, and finally found Frank's ass. He got a hold and squeezed, kneaded spasmodically, dragging Frank closer.

As awesome as Mikey's neck was -- long, bare, sweat-salty, so sensitive to every nip and lick -- Frank really wanted Mikey's mouth. He'd spent so much time fantasizing about that mouth. And now he could have it.

Getting to it was a little difficult, though. Most of Frank's coordination had been washed away a few beers ago. Trying to push up and get to Mikey's mouth without losing the friction against his cock or loosing hold of Mikey's was too many things all at once. Frank's cheek bumped and slid against Mikey's and knocked Mikey's glasses half off. He ended up in Mikey's lap, still jacking Mikey off but no longer in a humping-able position.

"Okay, wait, how do we --" _do this_, Frank would have said. Strong fingers wrapping around the back of his neck derailed his train of thought. He barely had time to take a breath before Mikey shoved his glasses off onto the floor and crashed their mouths together.

The way Mikey kissed was like the way Mikey rocked out during practices when nobody was watching -- surprisingly hardcore. Frank could barely keep up. That might've been due to his blood alcohol level, but he was pretty sure it was more due to the way Mikey kept them locked together, fucking Frank's mouth with his tongue, sucking and biting his lips until Frank was pretty sure Mikey would leave him looking like somebody had punched him in the mouth.

Not that Frank minded.

He'd lost his rhythm, though. Mikey's cock was still hot and hard in his grip, but all he could remember to do was stroke his thumb erratically over the silky head, flick the notch now and then and make Mikey twitch and buck. Other than that all Frank could do was hold on to the back of the couch and make ridiculous noises. He could hear himself, kind of hazy and far away, and he sounded desperate.

Maybe for air. Mikey skimmed his hand up the close-shaven back of Frank's head and knotted his fingers in the long mess on top and jerked him back.

"_Fuck_," Mikey gasped.

Frank just gasped. Something else on the list of things Frank forgot to do when Mikey was in possession of his mouth: breathe.

"Fuck, Frank," Mikey bit out.

He was panting; he threw his head back and tried to thrust up into Frank's hand. It took Frank a second to catch up, remember where his hand was and what he was supposed to be doing with it.

By the time he did remember, though, Mikey had decided to do something else. He slapped Frank's hand away and gave Frank's hips a shove. It unbalanced Frank; a knee slid off the couch and his foot hit the floor, and he had to grab the arm of the couch with his free hand to keep from collapsing onto Mikey entirely.

It turned out he didn't need hands. Mikey had two hands, and it turned out that was plenty. Yanking at the front of Frank's jeans, he fought with the fly, slurring "fuck, fuck, Frank, fuck." Frank didn't help. He was too blurry, and Mikey was sprawled out beneath him, face screwed up while he tried to see what he was doing, shirt riding up to his ribs, cock flushed against his belly. Frank couldn't stop looking at him. Every inch of Mikey that his eyes took in made his skin tingle, made heat flood him. He felt like he was going to melt.

And then Mikey got his pants open and got a hand in and --

"Fuuuuuck." Frank had to close his eyes. "Mikey, fuck."

His arms shook from holding himself up. The palm firm against his cock, the warm hand cupping his balls, the fingers pushing between his ass cheeks and stroking -- the tug on his waistband wasn't even necessary. He would have sunk forward anyway, pressing into that hand.

And then it _left_.

"Fuck," he said again, because, "No, come on, Mikey."

"No," Mikey said. "This --"

He jerked Frank forward just a little, just enough so that when he freed Frank's cock from his shorts he could get his own in his hand and grip them together. The hot, hard length burned against Frank's cock. But in the good way. In the way that Frank's tendency to have maybe a little, a very little problem, sometimes, keeping it up when he'd been drinking too much was not going to be a problem at all.

"Do it," Mikey said.

"What?" Frank said. Breathed. Gasped. His head felt full of smoke. Mikey had him, why the hell wasn't Mikey doing something with him?

"Come on, Frank," Mikey said. His voice was as rough as the tug on Frank's waistband, yanking him forward and making him thrust into Mikey's hand and against Mikey's cock.

"Oh," Frank managed. "Okay."

He was supposed to be humping. _I can do that._ It wasn't a leg or a head or a mike stand or his guitar, but humping cock was so much better anyway.

Mikey kept his grip just loose enough around their cocks to let Frank move. Frank couldn't get much of a rhythm going, as wobbly as he felt, having to hold himself up, but the friction felt so good. He managed tiny, short thrusts; the rub was harsh and smooth, slipping and catching. Lube would have helped a whole fucking lot but Frank couldn't figure out when to pause to go get it.

Didn't really want to stop for it, though. Especially not when he managed to tear his gaze away from the swollen, shifting heads of their cocks and found Mikey watching him.

Mikey was just as spread out and exposed as Frank was, maybe more so with his stomach bare and his legs wide apart. He'd let his free hand drop into his lap. But the way he looked at Frank, the way his eyes were dark and heavy with more than just a buzz, and more than just need --

"Come on, Frank," Mikey ground out. "_Fuck_."

\-- Frank had a hazy sense of how he must look. Holding himself up -- Mikey had a perfect view; fucking into Mikey's hand, against Mikey's cock -- going harder when Mikey said too, thrusting because Mikey kept saying, "Do it," and "Come on," even though Frank felt like he needed to stop, fall down, let go --

He wanted this. More. Again. All the time. He wanted Mikey to shrug and almost smile, and make Frank think he could have and take; and then he wanted Mikey to take over and have him instead.

Heat clenched in his gut. He closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to hold back. If he went before Mikey that would be it, he'd fucking pass out, he knew he would.

"Mikey," Frank said. "You. I can't."

A hand slipped between his legs, stretched and clutching. Fingers dug into the back of his thighs, and then a couple shifted and almost, _almost_ pressed into his hole.

He tried to say something, no idea what; what came out was a stuttered, helpless, "Please."

He heard Mikey grunt, felt Mikey switch his hold to cover the heads of their cocks. He felt sudden wet heat flood around and against his cock. And that was it.

His arms gave out, and he collapsed forward. Their cocks and Mikey's hand got trapped. Everything that felt hot and swollen in Frank's belly tightened, twisted, choked a whine out of him as he shuddered.

Warmth spread over their chests; he buried his face against Mikey's neck, weaseling a hand between them until it ran into Mikey's in the slippery mess, and squeezed Mikey's fingers as he rode it out.

Eventually they both stopped shaking. Frank felt drained. Parched. Fuzzy and gray around the edges. He knew he must be heavy, and he knew he was sweaty and come-slick, but he didn't want to move. Mikey felt so good beneath him, just as limp, chest heaving just as hard, but solid. Solid and warm and _Mikey_.

*

Frank didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up.

A _thunk_ and a lot of shuffling and thudding snapped him awake. After a moment of groggy confusion he figured out where he was. At some point he and Mikey had apparently shifted enough to get themselves squeezed on the couch in a stretched-out, Frank-on-top tangled heap.

When Frank cracked an eye he saw the wall across from the couch, and early morning sun bright enough to cancel out the overhead bus lights. The shuffling and thudding, now with added wordless grumbling, meant people were coming. That also meant Frank should probably check to see if he and Mikey had pants on.

He had a hand buried between Mikey and the back of the couch; he wiggled it free and groped his own ass, then groped as much of Mikey's as he could reach. For the most part he felt pants. So they were not entirely naked.

_Good enough,_ he decided.

"What," said somebody. Whoever it was sounded like they'd been eating sand. "Fuck. Shit. _Frank_."

Frank cracked the eye again, but he still saw only wall and sunlight. Lifting his head, propping his chin on Mikey's chest, he blinked out the gunk in his eyes and squinted in the direction of the voice.

Gerard was in the kitchenette. He was not exactly standing. He was on his feet, but Awesome-Sound-Guy-Bob had one of Gerard's arms slung over his shoulders and was clearly the only reason Gerard wasn't a puddle on the floor.

Bob had his eyebrows quirked. His cheeks were pink, but the way he chewed his lip and the way his eyes looked, Frank could tell he was trying not to laugh. Frank grinned at him. He tried to put a little leer in it, but he suspected he just looked smug.

"Fraaaaaank," Gerard said.

Frank cringed. "Don't talk," he mumbled. "You sound like shit."

The conversation he may or may not have had with Gerard about not banging Gerard's baby brother started filtering through Frank's brain. It made him wonder if Gerard looked pasty and a little green because he was hung over, or because Frank was half-pantsed on top of Mikey. The bus probably smelled like sex, too.

"Hah." Ray staggered into view. He was looking at Frank and Mikey with a sleepy grin on his face, so when he tried to poke Gerard in the shoulder he almost missed. "Hah. _Hah._"

Gerard sighed. He shoved a hand into his pocket and dug around. Apparently he couldn't do that and keep his knees locked, because he drooped suddenly and nearly pulled Bob over. Bob muttered, "Fuck, Gerard," adjusted, hoisted Gerard up, and walked them both two steps sideways so he could dump Gerard onto the kitchen bench seat.

Pulling out his wallet, Gerard handed it to Ray. While Ray helped himself to a few bills Gerard made a face at Frank.

"You couldn't last two more weeks?" he whispered. "Two more fucking weeks. Dammit, Frank."

"Thank you, Frank," Ray said, tossing Gerard's wallet at him and giving half of what he'd taken to Bob.

Bob took the money and offered Ray a half-assed salute. He aimed his vaguely embarrassed, possibly a bit appreciative tiny Bob-smile at everything _except_ Frank and Mikey as he left.

Listening to Bob leave gave Frank time to ponder a few things.

"Wait a fucking minute." He tried to push up onto one elbow. The elbow slid between Mikey and the couch; Mikey grunted and jerked awake, slurring something incoherent. His wobbly swing caught Frank in the chin.

Some falling and floundering and woozy sitting-up later, Frank considered Gerard from the floor.

"You laid that big brother threatening bullshit on me to win a bet?"

"I thought it would work better than it did," Gerard huffed. He crossed his arms over his chest. "Would have if you weren't the worst friend ever."

Frank waved that off. "Wait. So. Does that mean you actually don't mind if me and Mikey fuck?"

Mikey patted his head and said, "Of course he doesn't. You're _Frank_," at the same time Gerard's expression twisted in horror and he said, "No, but, ew, I don't want to fucking hear about it," and Ray made a desperate sound and fled to the bunks.

Frank just flopped back onto the floor and closed his eyes. "Hey Mikey, wanna have more sex later?"

Mikey's "Yep" was muffled but immediate.

"Sweet."

*

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "She's My Winona" by Fall Out Boy.


End file.
